


spreading you open is the only way of knowing you

by hotcuppa



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Breaking Up & Making Up, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Season/Series 03, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:21:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22307092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotcuppa/pseuds/hotcuppa
Summary: “you really didn’t go?” he asks quietly, because he still can’t quite believe it.ian shrugs, a small smile on his face. mickey wants to kiss it, to press his tongue between ian’s lips and make him suck on it. “you asked me not to,” ian repeats, and that flips the switch inside mickey that has kept him held back.or: ian never enlisted, because mickey asked him not to.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 20
Kudos: 246





	spreading you open is the only way of knowing you

**Author's Note:**

> test of my patience  
> there’s things that we'll never know  
> you sunshine, you temptress  
> my hand's at risk, i fold  
> crisp trepidation  
> i’ll try to shake this soon  
> spreading you open  
> is the only way of knowing you

mickey stares up at the gallagher house and wonders if it’s even worth it to go knock. ian had been pretty straightforward, said he was leaving for basic in the morning and that mickey wouldn’t see him again for four years.  _ minimum.  _ and this is all ian’s been fucking talking about for months. he didn’t pussy out. he didn’t stay for mickey. why would he?

why would ian stay for the asshole who fag bashed him when he was just asking to be loved? shit, and mickey just  _ left him there.  _ he left ian there, bleeding and hurt, and then he wanted to try and pretend that everything was okay? wanted to ask ian to stay? 

he shakes his head, turning to walk past the house and back home. ian isn’t there. even if he was, he wouldn’t want to see mickey anyway. mickey sure as hell wouldn’t want to see ian, if the roles were reversed. not unless he was seeing ian’s ass being kicked. 

when he reaches the edge of the fence, he freezes. what if ian  _ is  _ there? what if he’d tried to enlist and they’d turned him down because he isn’t eighteen yet? what if ian changed his mind, got cold feet? it isn’t exactly unlike ian to spontaneously change his mind about what he wants. hell, he’d done that when he started fucking mickey instead of kash. 

before he can chicken out, he forces himself to approach the house and knock on the front door, ignoring how his heart pounds behind his ribs. worst case scenario, the door gets slammed in his face. there’s nothing to worry about. 

when nobody answers for thirty seconds, mickey knocks again, louder this time. he shifts on the balls of his feet and whispers all the hail marys he can think of, just hoping and fucking  _ praying  _ that ian will be the one opening that door and slamming it in mickey’s face. it’s okay if ian doesn’t want to see him—even though mickey thinks he might die—as long as he’s okay. mickey just needs to know that he’s okay. 

the door opens, and mickey immediately snaps his gaze up—but it isn’t ian. it’s debbie, and she looks extremely confused to see him standing there. 

“hey,” mickey says awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck just to have something to do with his hands. “is, uh, your brother here?”

“why? he owe you money or something?”

mickey shakes his head. “no, i just need to talk to him. it’s kinda important.”

debbie gives him a weird look, but doesn’t press further. mickey’s grateful. “which brother? lip, carl?”

“ian.”

“is this about work? because i’m pretty sure he doesn’t work today.”

mickey perks up. “did he tell you that? is he here?” he tries to look around debbie’s shoulder and into the house, but he can’t see anything other than a corner of the couch and the reflection of the television. 

“no, he left really early this morning. carl said it was, like, 5am. he hasn’t been home since, i figured he was with mandy or something.”

“shit. do you know when he’ll be back?”

“nope.” debbie gives him a once over, and then leans against the door frame. “seriously, does he owe you money or something? because if you’re just gonna beat him up, i won’t tell you when he comes home.”

mickey rolls his eyes. “how many goddamn times do i have to tell you i just wanna fuckin’ talk to him?”

“sorry,” debbie shrugs, but she doesn’t sound all that sorry. mickey figures her concern isn’t necessarily unfounded, though, so he chooses to just let it go. “i’ll let you know when he comes home, okay? or i’ll tell him to call you.”

mickey nods, “thanks.” debbie nods back and then closes the door. mickey stands there until he hears the lock click, and then he makes his retreat back down the stairs, his heart in his throat. 

he did it. he actually fucking left. 

every step on the concrete sidewalk feels like it gets heavier and heavier, and mickey seriously wonders if he’s going to be able to make it back home with all of this weight on him, crushing him. as much as he wants to tell himself that he doesn’t care, that gallagher can go fuck himself, his heart aches and he’s reminded that maybe, if he’d just been fucking honest, ian never would’ve left in the first place. 

in all honesty, he doesn’t know how they ended up here. he never intended to get attached, never wanted it to become anything more than a quick fuck in the back of the store sometimes. gallagher was good in bed, and all mickey had ever wanted to do was take advantage of the opportunity for good dick. he never wanted  _ any  _ of this. 

but now it’s like ian is just… he’s  _ everywhere.  _ mickey thinks about him all the time, his stupid hair and his stupid freckles and that stupid way he smiles when he thinks he got the best of mickey. he doesn’t know how it happened but he started fucking caring, started developing feelings for the guy, and now mickey feels like his heart is gonna give out if he actually has to spend the next four years never hearing ian say his name. 

the whole thing kind of pisses him off. all it’d taken was one old geriatric fuck to push mickey over into the deep end, for mickey to kiss ian, to beat a guy up over him, to invite ian over, to ask him not to go. to  _ cry _ when all he’d heard in response was ian’s retreating footsteps. to miss him. 

“fuck,” mickey says, out loud, to nobody. because he’s alone. the only person he ever had was ian, and now he’s gone. so mickey is fucking  _ alone.  _

somehow he makes it back to his house, and as he makes his way up the stairs, he’s convinced there’s sandbags on the bottom of his shoes. he kicks them off in the doorway and forces himself to walk to the kitchen, one labored footstep at a time. 

he grabs a beer out of the fridge, thinks for a moment, and then takes out the entire case. he pops open the single bottle and chugs half of it immediately, and then makes his way towards his bedroom so he can lay in bed and finish off all of them. he knows that getting drunk will only make him miss ian  _ more,  _ but at least he’ll fall asleep eventually and then he can wake up and force himself to not give two shits about ian goddamn gallagher. 

when he makes it to his bedroom door, there’s a soft  _ thud  _ sound from the other side. mickey stops in his tracks, clutching the beer to his chest and thinking briefly whether it’s worth it to put them down to find a gun or baseball bat. but after listening for a few seconds, there isn’t another sound, so mickey chalks it up to the house settling and then pushes his way inside. 

the second the door opens all the way, mickey’s entire case of beer bottles hit the floor. ian startles from where he’s sat on mickey’s bed, but mickey doesn’t move an inch, eyes locked on ian and not wavering even for a second. 

_ what the fuck,  _ mickey thinks, and he must’ve said it out loud because ian reacts. mickey blinks. “what the fuck?” he repeats, just to be sure it actually  _ is _ said. 

“sorry i scared you,” ian says meekly, shrugging his shoulders a bit. “i just… i didn’t know where else to go.”

“how about fuckin’ basic?” mickey mumbles, blinking hard a couple more times to snap out of his shock. then he picks up the beers and moves them to a table—none of the bottles had shattered, so he can still drink. 

ian flinches. “i… i was gonna go, i swear i was. i had a fake id made and everything. i really was gonna go.” he looks away from mickey then, picking at his nails. mickey can’t help but feel a bit of sick satisfaction at the fact that ian’s nervous. 

ian’s always been the one person who was never scared of mickey. maybe he was at first, when mickey and his brothers were out for his ass after mandy said he’d raped her, but it didn’t last long. ian hasn’t been scared of mickey since he busted into mickey’s room with a goddamn tire iron to demand the fucking gun back. mickey scares everybody, but not ian. never fucking ian. 

“what are you doin’ here then, asshole?” he asks, picking up his half full beer and polishing off the rest of it. “come to say goodbye or some shit? rub it in my face to make yourself feel better?”

ian shakes his head. “no. the bus left already, i… i’m not going to basic.”

“oh yeah? and why’s that? they wouldn’t take your underage ass because they knew you were fuckin’ lying? honestly, ian, they were gonna find out sooner or later that you’re underage. what the fuck did you do, steal lip’s social security?”

“no, mick. i never even made it to the fuckin’ bus, i… i got up to do it, and i walked there, and then i just kept on fuckin’ walking. and then i ended up here.” he looks up at mickey again, and the sight nearly breaks mickey’s heart. ian’s obviously been crying, or fighting the urge to cry, because his eyes are wet and bloodshot and his cheeks are bright. mickey wants nothing more than to reach out and comfort him, but he doesn’t. “and you weren’t here, so i figured i’d wait for you to come back. you should really move your spare key, everybody knows about the fake rock shit.”

“why the fuck are you here, ian?” mickey demands, and ian’s face crumbles. 

“you asked me not to go,” ian replies, his voice so soft that mickey almost doesn’t catch it. “so i didn’t.”

mickey’s heart spikes, but he forces himself to roll his eyes. there’s no fucking way ian is telling the truth, no way he still wants to be with mickey after… after  _ everything.  _

“fuck off, man,” mickey forces out, but his voice sounds strained and stilted even to his own ears. “you really expect me to believe that bullshit?”

“it’s the truth. you asked me not to go, and i couldn’t leave knowing that. i couldn’t leave knowing that you want me to stay.” ian pushes himself off the bed, and stands tall in front of mickey. “i’m sorry. i shouldn’t have pushed you like that.” it’s only now that mickey is registering the bruises and cuts on ian’s face, and it makes his stomach twist. he could vomit just at the thought that he’s the one who did this to ian, and the one who fucking left him there afterwards. “it’s okay if you don’t love me. and it’s okay if you’re not ready to talk about your sexuality yet. and i’m sorry you have to go through such a shitty marriage. i wish— i wish things could be different.” ian bites his lip. “i’ll go if you want me to.”

mickey considers it. he considers telling ian to shove it where the sun don’t fucking shine, to kiss his white ass and not let the door hit him on the way out. it’s what mickey would’ve done months ago. what he would’ve done back when this first started, when ian was  _ nothing but a warm mouth to him, _ and he could walk away without feeling like the worst person alive for making ian sad. 

but things are different now. mickey  _ loves  _ ian, even if he’s not ready to say that yet. and, shit, ian didn’t go. he’s here. he’s right in front of mickey, asking for forgiveness, and mickey won’t fail him this time. he can’t do that shit again. 

“you really didn’t go?” he asks quietly, because he still can’t quite believe it. 

ian shrugs, a small smile on his face. mickey wants to kiss it, to press his tongue between ian’s lips and make him suck on it. “you asked me not to,” ian repeats, and that flips the switch inside mickey that has kept him held back. 

mickey launches forward and seals their lips together. ian is shocked at first and stumbles back, but adapts quickly, looping his arms around mickey’s waist and kissing him back with equal intensity. they stand there and make out for a long few moments, hands dancing all over each other’s bodies and mouths working against one another. 

it isn’t long before mickey is hardening in his jeans. ian notices quickly, shoving mickey back against the wall and then pressing his thigh between mickey’s legs. mickey takes it for the cue that it is and starts rolling his hips into ian’s leg, moaning out as the pool of pleasure gathers in his stomach.

ian spins them around eventually, and backs mickey up until the backs of his knees hit the bed. when mickey goes down, ian hovers over him, and grinds their hips together. “i fucking love you,” ian mumbles, trailing his kisses from mickey’s lips to his jawline. “you don’t have to love me. it’s okay.” he laces his and mickey’s fingers together and then traps mickey’s hands to the mattress, up by his head. mickey can’t help but whimper. 

he loves ian. he wishes he knew how to say it, wishes he knew how to convey his feelings to ian without his brain short-circuiting. as awful as it sounds,  _ this  _ is all mickey ever learned. he never knew tenderness and softness and love, he only knew all the rough edges of the world. the only way mickey knows how to tell ian what he’s feeling is by riding him into the mattress. 

“i wish you could—fuck,” mickey sighs, tilting his head back as ian starts grinding harder against him. “wish you could—”

“shut the fuck up,” ian mumbles, but there’s no heat behind it. mickey obliges only because his mind is scrambled, and reaches down to pull ian’s shirt off. 

he wishes ian could read his mind. that’s what he wants to say. he wishes ian could see how much mickey cares about him, without mickey having to say it. part of him feels like ian should  _ know.  _ after all, why would mickey spend all of this time banging him and even ask him to stay if he didn’t give a shit? if ian really meant nothing to him, mickey would’ve capped frank, he would’ve never beat up that old fuck, he wouldn’t have kissed ian outside of the mansion, he wouldn’t have immediately searched for ian the second he got out of juvie, he wouldn’t have asked him to stay. 

but ian is dense as fuck, and always has been. he’s never been good at seeing what’s right fucking in front of him, and mickey’s never been good at telling him. he wants to, he wants ian to know. he just… he  _ can’t.  _ not with words. 

so, he goes with the only way he knows how. he helps ian frantically take off all of their clothes, and points him in the direction of the half empty bottle of lube stashed in the nightstand. in record time, mickey is on his back with his legs spread, three fingers pressing deep inside of him. mickey holds ian’s free hand, though, and hopes ian isn’t too dense to pick up on that. 

“you look so fucking good like this,” ian breathes, and mickey can’t hold back the moan that the praise draws out. “so fucking good, taking my fingers. so tight, feels good around them.”

mickey grunts, “will feel even better around your cock. fucking get on me.”

ian huffs a laugh, but rolls on top of mickey with ease. mickey distantly wonders if they should use a condom, but ian is running his dick over his hole before he can turn that thought into a sentence. whatever. he trusts ian, and he knows for damn sure that he’s clean. he doesn’t remember the last time he (willingly) slept with anyone who wasn’t ian. 

“always feel so good,” ian mumbles out as he starts to push in. “so beautiful. i love you.”

mickey can’t say it back, so he pushes his hips back instead, goading ian to push all the way in. ian gets this little furrow between his brows as he bottoms out with mickey’s help, and then they lock eyes. 

_ read my mind,  _ mickey’s subconscious screams.  _ i know you can see it in my eyes. i know you can. _

but ian just tenses up, and his face hardens like he’s bracing himself for something. mickey doesn’t have time to wonder what it is before ian is sliding an arm under his back, lifting his hips up at an angle, and then slamming into him so hard that mickey fucking sees stars. 

the brutal pace isn’t that surprising, all things considered. ian’s angry at him, a little. hurt beyond belief. he wants mickey to talk to him, to make things better, and mickey just can’t. of course ian is frustrated. mickey understands. 

“shit,” ian hisses out, slamming into mickey so hard that every slap of his balls against mickey’s skin echoes through the room. “so goddamn pretty, mick. can’t even take it. can’t believe i was ever gonna fuckin’ leave this.” as if to prove his point, he slaps mickey’s ass, and mickey moans way too loudly. 

see, he’s not fucking dense. he knows what ian is saying with this sex, what he means. so why can’t ian see that this is mickey practically  _ screaming from the rooftops _ that he’s fucking in love?

mickey is hard and leaking between them, already leaving a mess on his stomach. ian reaches down to stroke him a couple of times, and then reaches for the headboard to brace himself against it. mickey didn’t think it was possible, but the pace gets rougher and even more brutal, until mickey is practically a moaning, sobbing mess of precum. 

“gonna come for me?” ian asks, clearly winded and getting tired but not willing to slow down. mickey nods weakly, arching his back and crying out when ian nails his prostate dead on, over and over again. “do it. fucking come for me, mick. come. let go. come for me.”

it only takes three more hard strokes for mickey to light up like a christmas tree. he arches off the bed like he’s being fucking exorcised as he shoots off between their bodies, and he’d never admit it, but he’s pretty sure a couple of tears leak out. 

ian rides out his orgasm and then finishes himself, although much quieter. mickey feels him come, since they’re bareback, but ian never makes a sound. mickey doesn’t think that bodes well for him. 

once they’ve both calmed down, ian pulls out and then flops flat on his back on the bed next to mickey. they’re both panting and sweating, trying to catch their breath and recover. mickey’s pretty sure he hasn’t come that hard in  _ months,  _ and he knows his legs will be wobbly for days. 

he smiles a little, turns to ian. ian doesn’t look back at him, so mickey just stares at his profile. “goddamn, gallagher. maybe you should leave me more often.”

“it wasn’t a breakup,” ian snaps, rolling off the bed. the change in his mood jarrs mickey so much that it nearly kills his post orgasmic bliss. “be right back, i’ll get a rag.”

ian leaves the room, and mickey studies the curves of his ass on the way out. 

_ fuck.  _

now ian was gonna want to fucking talk, and it was only gonna make shit worse. mickey’s real fucking good at shoving his foot in his mouth and hurting ian’s feelings. he never means to, and even when he  _ does  _ mean to, he never feels good about it. he doesn’t want to hurt ian. he wishes ian could just see what’s right in front of his fucking eyes, and not try to force mickey to talk about it. 

ian comes back with a rag and quickly wipes mickey clean. it makes him feel weirdly exposed to have ian literally wiping his ass, and normally he’d be complaining, but he forces himself to stay quiet this time.  _ notice it, ian. see what i’m telling you. _

but ian just goes through the motions, tossing the rag aside when he’s done. and then he sits on the edge of the bed, back facing mickey, and mickey forces himself to close his eyes. he doesn’t know if ian is going to cry again, and he doesn’t want to see his shoulders start shaking if he does. it’ll break mickey’s heart to see that shit. 

“just because i was leaving doesn’t mean i was leaving  _ you,” _ ian mumbles, and mickey bites his tongue. “how the fuck can i leave you? we’re not together. you’re fucking  _ married. _ all we’re doing is… is banging.”

mickey’s heart shoots right up into his throat. he knows ian doesn’t actually think that, knows that this isn’t just sex for ian. mickey had put that fucking thought in his head. 

“is that really what you think?”

“i’m nothing but a warm mouth to you,” ian grits out. “and if i left, you’d just go back in the fucking closet, and you don’t want that. you don’t wanna lose the good sex.”

mickey doesn’t know if he should be angry at ian or at himself for all of this, but he does know that his blood boils. “fuck you, gallagher,” he snaps. “you don’t know shit about me, so don’t act like you do.”

“you’re right, i don’t know shit about you. but that’s not really my fault.” the bed moves, and mickey opens his eyes in time to see ian crawling over his body again. “but i know how you sound. i know how to make you come. i know where to touch you, and kiss you, and lick you. i know how to make you come so hard you cry. and that’s good enough for you, right?”

“ian—”

“just need to be good enough for you.” that sentence is said so, so quietly, and right into the crook of mickey’s neck. mickey almost didn’t hear it, and it breaks his fucking heart so much that he wishes he didn’t. “you need some more time or are you ready for round two?”

mickey knows what he should say. knows he should tell ian that of course he fucking cares, of course he… he  _ loves  _ him. that ian is more than good enough. he knows he should pull ian’s head back and look him in the eyes, all that romantic shit. 

but he can’t. he doesn’t. 

instead, he pulls ian’s head back and presses their lips together, wrapping his legs around ian’s waist. “fucking get on me, then, asshole,” he mumbles out, but his voice is all soft and smooth and there’s not a hint of bite in it. 

ian smiles down at him and then kisses him again, and then starts kissing his way down to mickey’s dick. mickey thinks about saying it, as ian swallows him down and starts bobbing his head, but his head becomes all scrambled again and he can’t think of what he wants to say in the first place. 

he reaches down to lace his fingers with ian’s, and ian seems shocked—shocked enough to freeze around mickey’s cock and stare up at him with wide, wet, confused eyes. 

“don’t say shit about it, ian,” he warns, but squeezes ian’s fingers once. it makes ian smile around his dick and then eagerly get back to work, so mickey takes it as  _ message received.  _ he fucking hopes it was. 

maybe he’ll tell him, one day. soon. he can’t lose ian again. he won’t. 

**Author's Note:**

> title from fine line by harry styles


End file.
